


The People Pleasers

by KissMyAssthma13



Category: Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury
Genre: AE-Patches, AU. Sorta. Kinda. I guess., Artificial Emotions, Emotional Therapists (ETs), Gen, Inspired by an English class assignment, OCs - Freeform, Pre-femslash between OCs if you reeeaaally squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissMyAssthma13/pseuds/KissMyAssthma13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OCs. Sort of an AU. Kinda. I guess. In a world where everybody is (supposedly) happy all the time, how can they know they're happy if they've never experienced any other emotions to compare this happiness with? Through the use of Artificial Emotion Patches, of course. But . . . do the people realize how happy they are? Or do they realize something entirely different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The People Pleasers

 

Yellow, red, blue, labels, colors, faces. Racks and racks lined with them, hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands. ****

I reach for a purple patch. _Content._

“It’s been a while since I’ve been sad, don’tcha think?”

“Sure.”

I stare at the patch. The face on the patch, my face, stares right back. _Content._

“—just wanted to lounge around in my parlor—did I tell you how we got a fifth screen installed? Yes, on the ceiling, it’s absolutely amazing, you should come over and we’ll have a party, maybe I’ll invite some—”

I finger the lilac-hued AE-Patch absentmindedly, just letting her ramble, not that I’d be able to stop her anyway. She’s often prone to such extensive talks, too in love with the sound of her own voice to really care about whether or not people want to lend an ear to these talks. Maybe I should just go to checkout; it’s not like she’d notice or—

“—when I find out my father’s dead! Now, who woulda thunk it, eh, Thursday?” She shakes her head in the manner I’ve once seen her do with _Disappointed_ and _Mystified._ “Now why’d my father have to go and do a thing like that?”

Something flickers in my mind at the words, there and gone in a second, a dying candle struggling to keep alight in my dark haze of _Aloof_ , and failing.

_. . . my father’s dead . . ._

“My mother tries to hide it from me, but I’ve seen her patching up,” Missy Washington goes on to tell me. “Though funnily enough, I think she’s been patching _Cheerful_ and _Optimistic._ ” She frowns, or tries to. Her new (and rather unnecessary for her short nineteen years of existence) anti-aging skin treatment has left her face shockingly slick and smooth and static. “Why do you think that is, Thursday?”

I shrug, returning to my previous act of staring at the circular patch in my hand. _Content._ “Maybe she misses him,” I suggest offhandedly.

“Oh, don’t be silly!” Missy laughs, but the skin on her face, pulled tight and taut over her flesh, twists her smile into more of a grimace. “He left for the war years ago, no reason for her to miss him now,” she reasons, her long, delicate fingers flitting and sifting through the racks of patches colored with various shades of blue— _Dismal, Forlorn, Melancholy—_ before singling one out.

“Do _you_ miss him?” I ask without really expecting an answer. And as predicted, I don’t get one. At least, not to my question.

“Did I tell you about Brandon? He told me yesterday that he prefers the Gardener over the White Clown. Can you _believe_ him? I think he’s been—”

 _Content._ My face on the patch, altered and adjusted by the personalizing reflector on the front, looks like me and yet . . . doesn’t.

I grab another, this one more of an indigo— _Serene—_ before replacing it. Another, _Satisfied._ Another, the most disturbing one, _Complacent—_ though for what reason I find it so disturbing, I really can’t say.

Missy pauses in her tirade about Brandon and television gardeners just long enough to thrust her patch up and into my line of vision. “What do you think, Thursday? You think I’m a pretty crier?” I don’t bother pointing out to her that the tear-streaked, mucus-dripping face on the patch now reflects me instead of her.

“You look fine,” I fib easily, but she’s long since tuned me out, only having asked for my opinion in the first place because silence unnerves her and inane chatter settles her. I feel the corners of my lips tug down disapprovingly at the green _Aloof_ patch stuck to my upper arm. Nowadays, it just seems like the effects of these patches are wearing off faster and faster.

_They’re doing it on purpose, they gotta be, no way would they let a mistake like this happen. Unless it’s not a mistake, unless—_

“What do you think of _Despairing,_ Thursday?”

I feel my brow knit itself into a frown. _Unless, unless, unless._ “. . . It’s fine,” I eventually respond.

“Oh, wait, no, I’ve got it! _Grief-Stricken!_ That should be perfect!” she squeals, her voice even more shrill than usual in her animated state.

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”

Do I really look like that when I’m _Content?_

Missy eyes the patch in my hand with a tinge of disappointment, an upturned nose of distaste.

“That one _again,_ Thursday?” She rolls her eyes at me then, her head moving along with the force of it. She snatches _Content_ out of my hand and stuffs it back haphazardly on a random rack before picking out another slapdash patch. Red. _White and blue._

_When’s Daddy coming home, Mama?_

“Here,” says Missy, grabbing my hand and gently pressing the red patch— _Hateful—_ into my open palm, then enclosing my fingers around it. I stare blankly at our conjoined hands, at the same patch grasped in her own other hand. “We’ll try this one together, okay?”

_Dogs play dead, right, Mama? Is that what Daddy did in the war? Mama? Mama, where’s Daddy? Mama?_

“Yeah,” I agree, except my voice comes out hoarse and unrecognizable, a croak. I clear my throat to try again. “Yeah.”

Missy beams at me. “Great!” She begins dragging me towards the front of the store. “Now, I want your honest opinion on this, do you think I should dump Brandon? I just don’t think I can date anyone who likes watching the _Gardener,_ of all things. But then again—”

 

* * *

 

A vase shattered. “As if!”

A chair thrown. “Oh, like I give a _damn_ what you think, you eel-faced—”

A disbelieving gasp. “You take that _back._ ”

A challenging scoff. “Or _what?_ You’ll talk my ear off, throw a couple of meaningless insults my way, slap a thousand patches on me ‘til I overdose? _What,_ Missy, _what will you do?_ ”

Falling tears. “I hate you! I hate you, Thursday, I hate you, I hate you, _I hate you!_ ”

The words don’t hurt, not like they should. Like they should coming from my best friend of sixteen years. But then again, the words aren’t real, are they? Simply the result of an artificial hatred coming from my artificial best friend. But it wasn’t always like this, I know it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been.

_A corner booth in the back, but it’s gotta be by the window, so we can watch. Just watch—the people, the world, everything._

The red around the edges of my vision is beginning to fade, starting to be replaced by something else, and I’m really not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

“I think . . . I think I hate you too.”

“The hell does that mean, ‘you _think_ ’?” she snarls.

“. . . I don’t know.” Suddenly, I just feel so tired. A weariness washes over me, as sudden and harsh as a tsunami, dragging me down down down, deeper down, just down, ‘til I’m nothing more than a crumpled mess of limbs and legs and listlessness on the floor. I don’t need to look up to know that Missy hasn’t moved from her spot across the parlor. “I don’t know,” I repeat. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, how to get my dad back, how to get my mom back, how to get _you_ back. I don’t—”

“You’re not making any sense!” yells Missy, her voice sharp with anger, genuine anger. “Stop it! Just stop it!”

My fingers scrabble at the red patch on my neck, pulling at the edges to just get the damn thing off already, but it sticks to me, clings to me, refuses to release me from its adhesive grip. I cry out in frustration because _why?_ Why, why, _why?_

Why is my daddy not home? Why is my mama always so cold to me? Why did my best friend leave me all those years ago?

My fingers finally catch on the edge of the patch and I yank with all my might, relishing the burn and the rawness of its absence. My face is wet, from tears or sweat or both, I can’t really say. I just need to get out, get away from this artificial Missy with her artificial feelings and her artificial ‘family’ in the walls. I just need to—I need to—

 

* * *

 

“ _Shhh.”_

_I nod, though I can’t really stifle my giggling. But it’s okay, ‘cause Missy’s giggling right along with me._

“ _Okay, here’s the plan. We’re gonna go home and act normal.”_

“ _Normal,” I parrot agreeably._

“ _We can’t let our parents know anything about this, got it?”_

“ _Of course,” I reply._

_Missy lowers her voice as the subway train stops and more passengers come aboard. “Do you have everything packed?” she asks me._

_I nod, bouncing in my seat, unable to contain my excitement._

“ _You’ve got your toothbrush, right? And clothes and--”_

“ _Yes,” I groan impatiently. “Yes, yes, I have everything. Now what time are we leaving?”_

_Missy smiles at me, big and wide and in that way that promises only fun and adventure. “We leave at 0100. That’s military time for one o’clock in the morning,” she informs me seriously._

_I can only bob my head up and down, awed by her knowledge of such things. “Did Uncle teach you that?”_

“ _Yeah,” she answers, and I try not to pout, really, I do. Because Uncle is really nice and he talks about things no one else really talks about. He’s a bit different, but in a really good way. Sometimes though, I feel like he likes Missy better than he does me, what with how he’s always teaching her things. Things he doesn’t really teach me, things he doesn't even teach Clarisse._

You'll figure it out for yourself one day.

“ _Hey,” Missy says, shaking me gently. “Stop that.”_

“ _Stop what?” I lean back defensively._

“ _You’re doing that thing.”_

“ _What thing?”_

“ _The thing. With your lip. That you always do when you’re upset about something.”_

_That’s one of the bad things about being best friends with someone since you were both three years old—they know you too well._

“ _Never mind that,” I tell her with a wave of my hand. “We’ve only got about a minute before we get to our stop. We need to finish going over the plan.”_

“ _Right,” Missy accedes, her lips set into a thin line of determination. “You remember where we’re gonna meet?”_

“ _The Rocky Cafe.”_

“ _Right.”_

“ _Right.”_

_We stare at each other for a long moment, and I don’t need Missy to tell me with words that she’s just as nervous and scared and yet wonderfully excited as I am—I can see it in her eyes, bright and blue and beautiful._

“ _You ready for this?”_

_I take her hand in mine. “As I’ll ever be.”_

 

* * *

 

“How have you been, Thursday?”

“Fine.”

“You seem distressed, Thursday. Would you like to talk about it?”

“You always say that.”

“Maybe because you’re always distressed.”

I scoff. “Right,” I say ironically.

“Have you been _Content?_ ”

“Yeah.”

“Good, good.” The sound of a pen scratching on paper fills the room as the ET scribbles something down on his clipboard, an act that will never cease to drive me crazy with questions of _what? What, what, what are you writing?_ “Now tell me about your day.”

“It’s been fine.”

The ET sighs almost tiredly, rubbing at his chin. “You know, Thursday, you’ve been coming to these sessions since you were twelve. And they always go like this.”

“Then maybe that should be a clue that I don’t need to be here,” I snap irritably.

“Ah, quite the contrary.” He delicately pushes his glasses higher up his nose. “You can’t keep all your emotions bottled up inside of you like this, Thursday.”

He stares at me evenly, his eyes betraying nothing, and I stare right back, hoping to a god I don’t believe in that my eyes are just as blank. “But I can’t feel,” I point out. “Nobody can. Isn’t that the point of these patches?” I tilt my neck to the side to reveal the purple patch there. I don’t show him the other three on my thighs.

“Yes, of course.” More scribbling. “And you’ve been patching up only twice a day, one at a time, as I’ve recommended, yes?”

I nod, shifting in my seat, and the patches on my thighs rubbing against my denim jeans only serve to remind me how many patches I’ve already used today.

“Now, tell me about your fight with Missy today.”

I can’t help it, I tense up. “What fight?”

“Now, now, don’t lie to me, Thursday. She came in here crying about the new patches you two tried— _Hateful,_ was it?—and demanding that it be taken off the market.” He tilts his head at me and I get the abrupt urge to slap his glasses off his face. “Now what could’ve warranted such a reaction as that?” he inquires, his voice, calm and buttery, grating on my ears.

“Why do you think?” I don’t look away from him, refuse to do so.

“I think,” he begins, pausing for dramatic effect, “that something like that has never happened before with any of the other customers who’ve felt _Hateful._ ”

“Is that so?” I say, voice flat.

“Yes. It is.”

An uneasy silence settles over us like a heated blanket in a humid room, thick and tense and dead. The air presses against my chest, crushing my lungs, but I force myself to speak. “We’re done here.” Force myself to stand up. “Good day, doctor.” Force myself to walk to the door.

“. . . Good day, Thursday.”

Force myself to grab the doorknob.

“Oh, but Thursday . . .”

Force myself not to just make a run for it.

“Do be more careful in the future. Eight patches in one day is highly dangerous. Any more and you might begin experiencing adverse effects.”

Force myself not to ask how he could possibly know how many patches I’ve used.

“We don’t want anything happening to you. Now do we, Thursday?”

Force myself not to shake.

“Not like Clarisse McClellan. Her death was so sudden, so tragic, so—”

I’m out the door before he can finish the sentence.

 

* * *

 

“ _Missy! Oh, my god, are you okay? What happened? I just—I got to the cafe but you weren’t there and the police were everywhere and just now, I had to beg your mom like crazy for her to let me see you—”_

“ _Shhh.” There’s no giggling this time. Missy smiles at me from where she’s laying on her bed, big and wide and . . . fake. She raises her left arm. On it is a big, purple circle. I just barely manage to catch the word printed across its front:_ Content. “ _I’m patching up.”_

 _I stare at her, at the patch on her arm that looks like some big, perfectly round bruise blemishing her pale skin. “What . . . What is that?” I find my feet walking over to her bedside all on their own, against my will even. Because as much as I wanna know what’s on her arm, a bigger part of me is telling me to run. To tear that thing off, take Missy, and just_ run.

“ _It’s the best thing ever.”_

_Her voice is different now, breathier, higher, un-Missy-er._

_I don’t ask anymore questions._

_The door to Missy’s room opens and her mother comes bustling in. “Thursday, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she says in that clipped, brusque manner of hers._

_I can't get out fast enough._

_The following day, Mama brings me to a man. He has no name. He’s just the Emotional Therapist. And from now on, I have to go see him every week._

“ _How have you been, Thursday?”_

“ _Fine.”_

“ _You seem distressed, Thursday. Would you like to talk about it?”_

“ _. . . What did you do to Missy?”_

“ _You’re happy, aren’t you, Thursday?”_

“ _Missy! What’d you do to Missy?”_

“ _Say it with me, Thursday. ‘I’m happy.’”_

“ _What’s wrong with Missy?!”_

_He never answers my question. But at the end of the session, he gives me a big, perfectly round bruise too. And it hurts, worse than any other bruise I’ve ever gotten._

 

* * *

 

I’m happy. It’s a new day and I’m happy.

“Oh, Thursday, I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Missy—”

“No, no, no, let’s not talk, we can always talk later!” She ushers me into the parlor and pushes down on my shoulders until I’m seated on the couch. “Let me just turn on the ‘family,’ okay?”

“Missy—yesterday, last night, it was—we need to—”

But the screens flicker to life before I can say anything, and the voices of the ‘family’ drown out my own. Missy comes to settle down beside me, our thighs touching, we’re so close. Yet she’s not really here, and neither am I.

“It’s just _tragic,_ isn’t it?”

“Why, yes, yes, it is!”

“I don’t know how I’m ever going to get past this!”

“Yes, it’s terrible—just _terrible!_ ”

“I feel like I could just cry right now!”

“Then cry!”

“I will!”

“Me too!”

But they don’t. They don’t cry. Colors begin bleeding onto the screen, so many colors.

I dig around harshly in my pocket, clawing at the patches there, finally grabbing hold of one. I rip off the plastic sheet covering the adhesive side before slapping it onto my arm.

How many is that now?

. . . I don’t know. I stopped counting after twelve.

I’m happy. It’s a new day and I’m happy.

 

* * *

 

“ _She’s dead, my dear.”_

“ _Wh—What? But . . . But that can’t—how?” I ask when what I really want to know is_ why.

“ _I can’t rightly say, my dear.” And though I can’t prove it, I am inexplicably, irrevocably certain that he wasn’t answering the question I’d asked, but rather the one I hadn’t._

_I stare at Uncle—he’s only ever been Uncle to me, but that’s more than anybody’s ever been—and he stares right back, his eyes wet with unshed tears. Pained. Genuinely, authentically pained._

“ _Clarisse is dead.”_

_I don’t remember ever moving, but I find myself in Uncle’s embrace, his scent—warm and like a newspaper at breakfast (but how can you know, Thursday? How can you possibly know what a newspaper smells like at breakfast?)—enveloping me and cloaking me and, just for a little while, shielding me from the rest of the world._

“ _Promise me something, Thursday.”_

“ _Anything,” I respond immediately, surprised to find that I actually mean it._

“ _Promise me you’ll fight, that you won’t let these_ things _change you.” His hand grips my wrist just a little too tightly, the purple patch there just a little too tightly. “And you must promise to bring Missy back.”_

“ _What? What are you—”_

“ _No, no, listen. I need you to listen, my dear.” I obey instantly, shutting my mouth so fast I can hear my teeth clack. “You need to understand, my dear, that I never liked you any less than Missy. Never.”_

 _Something—a memory?—pushes at the threshold of my consciousness, attempting to force its way through my_ Content _fog._

“ _But I could just tell, just as Clarisse could tell, that you are resilient. That you can—that you_ will _fight. You didn’t need me to teach you, only guide you. Do you understand?”_

_I don’t, but I nod anyway._

“ _Then do this for me. Do this for Clarisse, and for Missy.”_

_I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or how I’m supposed to go about doing it . . . but I nod anyway._

_The next day, he’s gone. Uncle’s gone and Mr. McClellan is gone._

_But there is a man. A man walking down the street, his face perplexed and just a little bit hopeful, as if searching, searching, searching. For something. For someone. His eyes roam over the house—Uncle’s dark, empty house—and for a second, I almost think he sees me, taking refuge in the house’s shadows. But then his eyes glaze over, and he’s gone._

 

* * *

 

“Do you—” I gasp, my body feeling as if it’s on fire. Burning, just like the books do, the houses. I start again, “Do you remember when we were—we were twelve years old and—” I have to stop for a moment to catch my breath, to try to refocus my vision back onto Missy. “We were twelve, and we wanted to run away, to run away from here because it was wrong, everything was so wrong—”

“What? What? I don’t—What are you _talking_ about, Thursday?” Missy’s got my face in her hands, my head in her lap, tears on her cheeks. “Look, just—just stop talking, okay? Stop talking, you’ll be okay, you’ll be okay, I’ve already called emergency hospital, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine—”

“No.” I shake my head. “ _No._ Missy, just—you remember, I know you do.”

“I don’t—”

“You do!” I wheeze, working to inflate my deflating lungs. “You do, Missy. The Rocky Cafe. The Rocky Cafe. You remember, I can see it. You’re still in there, Missy. You’re still there. I know—”

“Damn it, Thursday, just—shut up! Stop talking!”

I extend my arm, and the simple movement seems to drain me of all my energy, but I persevere, I continue straining, stretching, struggling. My fingers brush across the big, perfectly round bruise on Missy’s neck, unable to do anything more.

“Missy, Uncle, I’m . . . I’m so sorry. Missy, I . . .”

“God, Thursday, why? How could you be so damn stupid? _Twenty patches?_ Stupid, stupid, stupid—”

“Missy, I love you.”

“Thursday. Thursday. No, no, no, Thursday, stop kidding around, open your eyes, please. Please, oh, god, please, Thursday. _Thursday!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Missy Washington sits alone in the Rocky Cafe, in a corner seat in the back by a window. She sips absentmindedly at her latte, watching as people, as the world, everything, passes by her window, the rain tap-tap-tapping a _pitter-patter_ rhythm into the bulletproof glass.

_C’mon, it’ll be fun! It’s easy, just choose a person walking by and make up a story for them._

A man walks by, suitcase in hand, collar pulled up to offer some meager protection from the wind, the hat adorning his head doing little to shield him from the pelting rain but much to shield his face from view. All brisk and businesslike, he’s probably late for work—or maybe he’s a covert spy, heading to a rendezvous point with another agent. Or maybe he’s meeting up with his secret lover who just sent him a message saying she killed her husband and they can finally be together. Hell, maybe his secret lover’s a _man_ who just killed his wife.

That man could be any of those things, but Missy Washington isn’t thinking any of those things. Really, she’s not thinking at all. Nor does she really want to. There’s a large, flawlessly circular blemish on her neck. It’s really not that strange—everybody’s got them, after all, like the whole population has been infected with some wonderful, beautiful disease—except for the fact that Missy Washington can’t stand to be _Content._ She doesn’t really know why, she’s sure there’s a reason, she just can’t—quite—remember—why.

But maybe that’s all for the best. As the bombs come raining down, at least Missy Washington gets to die _Content._

 


End file.
